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About Holon

Oh, and the smells—gods, the oils! Lavender, sandalwood—fancy shite. Once heard some prat used pig fat in the old days—grim, right? Stank like a butcher’s yard. Anyway, sexual-massage—it’s a tease, a taunt, a bloody dance. You want it? Go for it. Just don’t expect me to bow. “Life goes on, with or without us”—*Yi Yi* nails it. I’d still choose violence over a backrub most days. Cheers, you wretch.

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After breakfast, we hit the streets. We walked down HaGolan St. and I was just trying to keep them from running into traffic. Like, hello, cars everywhere! And then, outta nowhere, one of the kids, little Amir, trips over his own feet and goes face-first into the sidewalk. I’m like, “Oh no, not today!” But he pops up, grinning like a goofball, and says, “I’m okay!” I’m like, “You’re tougher than me, kid.”

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